


A Man in Hue

by yuletide_archivist



Category: After School Nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sou woos Mashiro with Shakespeare. Well, sort of. Rated for language and sexual themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man in Hue

**Author's Note:**

> The sonnets mentioned are 130 and, of course, 20.
> 
> Written for 1tragicfragment

 

 

"My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red, than her lips red." As Fujishima Kureha stood next to her desk and read aloud from the book of Shakespearian sonnets, Mashiro struggled to concentrate.

Paying attention to the lesson was becoming more and more difficult for Mashiro. For one thing, the air conditioning had broken earlier in the day, and now the air of the classroom was rippling with heat. Every student shifted in his or her seat, wiping the sweat from his face with his forearm or fanning herself with her notebook.

Mashiro was distracted by more than just the heat, though, because Mizuhashi Sou was slumped in the desk next to him, one leg splayed into either aisle and a hand flipping through the book of sonnets. The other hand propped up his head, which had been turned in Mashiro’s direction for almost half an hour. Occasionally Sou would thumb to a certain page in their text, look down at it, then look back up to Mashiro, as if comparing a description of a person to the real thing. For the most part, though, he just stared.

Willing himself not to stare back at the other boy, Mashiro worked his jaw as he tried to focus his attention on Fujishima. She held the book close as she stumbled through the poem, her little elbows tucked in tight next to her body. "I have seen roses da ... damasked ... red and white," she murmured, her voice soft and demure, "But no such roses see I in her cheeks."

Looking at Fujishima, Mashiro couldn’t help but grin. The girl was so sweet and polite, and even though her vicious hatred for men was well known throughout the school, no one felt particularly threatened by her. She was too innocent, too much like a child. Unfortunately, with that innocence came a certain lack of intelligence. Even though they were reading a Japanese translation of the sonnet, still Fujishima read slowly and stumbled over the bigger words. Mashiro gave her a small smile of encouragement. She scowled and looked the other way.

_Number 20 is better._

Mashiro frowned at the slip of paper that had appeared under his elbow. When he looked up he saw that Sou was staring at him still, except now with a hint of expectation. "Twenty what?" he mouthed to Sou and waited as he tore another sheet of paper from his notebook and began to write on it.

Mashiro often heard the girls talking about Sou, but since Mashiro was not a girl, and therefore had no reason to pay attention to their frivolous conversations, he didn’t know exactly what it was that they said about him. However, it was Mashiro’s understanding that Sou would sleep with just about any girl in the class, if he hadn’t already. That’s what all the girls said, anyway. Mashiro made a face at the thought of it.

_Sonnet Number 20. Page 32. You should read it._

This next note surprised Mashiro. Sou didn’t really seem the type to like Shakespeare, or any poet, really. After all, he never worked very hard at school. That, and poetry was kind of effeminate. With a little shrug Mashiro picked up his book and turned to page 32.

_A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,_

Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;

A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted?

With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion:

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;

A man in hue all hues in his controlling,

Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.

And for a woman wert thou first created;

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated,

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,

Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

Mashiro frowned at the poem and read it a few more times. Then he looked at the footnotes. His face grew hot as he read about the double meanings behind some of the words.

A ball of paper bounced off Mashiro’s head and fell onto his desk. Sou gave a little smirk.

_What do you think?_

Shaking his head, Mashiro just shrugged again. Sou nodded sagely and passed him another note.

_It’s actually a pretty complex poem. Too bad most of it doesn’t come through in translation._

At this, Mashiro found a piece of paper in his book bag and scribbled out his own note.

_I wasn’t saying that I didn’t understand it. I just don’t get why you wanted me to read it._

Biting his lip, Sou made a little face that Mashiro couldn’t describe. He would have called it a smile, except for the fact that Sou almost seemed to be in pain. Mashiro stared at him as Sou tore yet another sheet of paper out of his notebook and crouched over it. When he finished writing, Sou stretched luxuriously, dangling his hand over Mashiro’s head for a moment before dropping a crumpled ball of paper onto his desk. Mashiro opened it and suppressed a snort. His notes kept getting longer and longer.

_A lot of Shakespeare’s sonnets are actually dedicated to a man. No one knows much about him, except that he was really beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that he could pass for a woman._

Mashiro crumpled the note in his fist, and as soon as the teacher was looking the other way, he threw it towards the trash bin. He missed by more than a yard.

Did Sou know? Had he seen? But how could he? Mashiro had been so careful. For his whole life he had been so careful. Mashiro bit his lip and squeezed his eyes together. He wanted to cry.

"I hate you," Mashiro thought, though he said nothing. He turned to hurl a look of contempt in Sou’s direction, as if to say, "You’re not any more of a man than I am." Sou blinked back at him, his expression betraying nothing, not even the tiniest hint of guilt for being so rude to Mashiro, so cruel.

How could Sou be so confident? Were all men like that? Mashiro hated himself for not knowing the answer. But if, one day, he could slouch like Sou, if he could cross his arms across his chest like Sou, toss his hair from his face like Sou, sleep in class like Sou, sneak to the bathroom to smoke like Sou, then maybe Mashiro would finally be able to look at himself in the mirror and say, "I’m a man," without feeling as if he was telling some sort of lie. Even if Mashiro could act like a man, there would still be things about himself that he could not change, things he would forever be lacking. He would never have a strong chin, for instance, or strong eyes. His body would never be made with the firm, powerful angles he saw in other boys. Unlike Sou, Mashiro would always be breakable.

_Basically, Shakespeare’s saying he’d like to sleep with this guy, but he can’t since the guy has a dick._

Mashiro trembled at the new note that had found its way onto his desk, and some sort of unfamiliar, inexplicable terror grew inside him. Then he threw the note back at Sou and closed his book of sonnets with a snap. He wouldn’t look at Sou, he told himself. Never again. Yet Mashiro could see from the corner of his eye that Sou was writing yet another note, his face growing redder and redder as his pen scribbled across a fresh sheet of paper. Before he could finish, though, the teacher, who had finally taken note of the activity in the back of the classroom, swiped the paper from Sou’s desk and peered at it through his reading glasses. "Passing notes again, I see?" the teacher asked. As he read, his eyes widened, and he pursed his lips as he folded the paper in half. "And which lucky lady is the recipient of this particular note, Mizuhashi-kun?" 

Sou glanced at Mashiro before crossing his arms over his chest and tossing his hair from his face. "It isn’t for a lady at all, sir," he said. 

 


End file.
